


21 Stars

by kitchen_sinks



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Break Up, Fate & Destiny, M/M, Phan Angst, Phanfiction, Plantboy Phil, Pretentious, Reflection, Spaceboy Dan, Stars, Still sad tho, semi happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitchen_sinks/pseuds/kitchen_sinks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan Howell spent his whole life looking through telescopes, but couldn’t see the cracks in the relationship right in front of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	21 Stars

There’s that split moment after waking up when you don’t remember. That blissful, unadulterated millisecond where everything is right in the world, and there’s nothing but cracks of sunshine slipping through the blinds and the distant sound of birds chirping. 

Dan hadn’t done much sleeping, but it’s silent, rolling force had finally taken him by surprise. He rolled over, eyes closed, and out of habit reached out beside him. His fingers touched nothing but soft fabric.

And that’s when he remembered.

_“You don’t care. Just stop, okay? I’m done, Dan. I’m done.”_

_“You’re done? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Phil come back here! Please just fucking talk to me!”_

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe and he didn’t want to remember. It wasn’t real. Phil was here and he was already up and eating cereal and watching anime and watering those goddamn fucking plants of his. 

_1… 2… 3…_

He sat up slowly and took stock of his surroundings. He wasn’t in bed, but on the living room couch. At his feet was a bottle of vodka that had been knocked over onto the floor. Empty. He vaguely remembered drinking it.

_4… 5… 6…_

The hallway was quiet. The only sound the soft shuffle of his feet on the ground as he made his way into the kitchen. Phil wasn’t at the breakfast bar. He wasn’t eating cereal or watching TV. He wasn’t fawning over that stupid cactus Dan hated so much. He was just gone.

_7… 8…_

The bedroom was empty, too.

Whatever usual light filtered through their room was blocked by the shades, still closed. It was dim and the air felt lonely, like the room wasn’t whole anymore. The bed was stripped of the usual blue and green duvet they shared, and most of Phil’s clothes were gone from the closet. The room still smelled like him; a sort of fresh and earthy scent, and it was making him sick. 

_9… 10…_

Phil had some things left to collect, but had done a relatively spectacular job cleaning up while Dan was getting piss drunk. A tetris lamp, some posters, his hair straightener, and a couple other items were the only signs he’d ever lived there at all.

Dan picked up the straightener and turned it gently in his hands. He was always so envious of Phil’s hair; the way it was so sleek and straight, unlike his own. Maybe that was why Phil had loved him. He was always green with envy, just like those goddamn fucking plants.

_11… 12… 13…_

His chest was aching as he sat down on Phil’s floor, absentmindedly running his hands along the plushy sheen of carpet. His breaths were coming too rapidly and he felt tears welling hot and fast in his eyes. 

_14… 15… 16…_

When had they changed? Why didn’t he see the seismic shift that erupted between them before it was too late? Somehow they had spun out of each other’s orbit, and Dan was too preoccupied with the stupid stars outside his window to notice.

_“You’re too busy looking up you can’t see what’s right in front of you,” he had snapped, gesturing vaguely to the telescope perched by the window, and the other space paraphernalia that littered the house. “You don’t see me, Dan! You look through me when I’m right here. Look at me.”_

_“I-” Dan paused, unsure of how to respond. The pang in his chest was palpable, and he so desperately wanted to reach out and take Phil into his arms; to whisk them away from the sharp and biting sting of reality. Back to when his laugh was his favorite sound, and the brush of his fingers sent shocks up his spine, and the inexorable force of gravity had pulled them together at that train station in Manchester. Perhaps the attractive forces of gravity, the one unwavering thing he’d thought he could count on, had failed him._

_When he looked at Phil, he didn’t see the same Phil he had before._

_When he looked at Phil, he felt cold._

_So he let him walk away._

He sat in a ball on the carpet. His eyes were burning and his wrapped his arms around his chest, as if to contain the sharp and hollow ache inside as he sobbed. Pathetic.

_17… 18…_

It felt like hours when he finally sat up again. Dan’s head was pulsing with a post-crying ache behind his eyes. The tears had dried to his cheeks and made his face feel sticky, but he didn’t have the energy to move from the floor. It hurt. He felt raw and scratched like an open wound and it fucking hurt and it wasn’t beautiful, because underneath that layer of hurt was nothing but an empty void. 

_19…_

Maybe Phil wasn’t his destiny, but it still left a black hole right in the center of his chest.

_20…_

He could only stare up at the ceiling, his puffy eyes settling on the cheap plastic stars he’d stuck up there when they’d first moved in. Their light had faded over time, but when the room was dark, Dan could still make out their faint greenish hue. He could only look up. It was all he knew how to do.

_“Dan, breathe with me, okay? One deep breath at a time. Look up. See those stars up there? Count them. That’s all I’m asking you to do. Just count, one by one. Can you do that for me, Dan?”_

_He sat on the floor with Phil gently rubbing his back and counted. 1… 2… 3… tallying all the stars on the ceiling over and over and over again until his breathing finally evened out and the tremors in his hands had subsided._

_“Thank you, Phil,” he whispered, wiping his watery eyes with the palms of his hands. Phil had just held him in response._

And so he counted, and he counted again, just like he always did, but the number always came out the same. 21. 21 stars on his ceiling, and he repeated it like a mantra in his head. 

Maybe they weren’t destined for greatness, but gravity had pulled them together, anyways.

Perhaps this was written in the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is danhowells-movingcastle if you want to check that out for more pretentious bullshit


End file.
